


Sheer

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hemospectrum, Other, seatroll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-you just want those moments to last forever. But they never do, they never will, and they will never be able to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Below The Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/192827) by [roachpatrol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/pseuds/roachpatrol). 



> "You've made do for so many sweeps with hours stolen here and there in the ablution trap, your ankles hanging out of the side and your ceiling staring down at you through the scant inches of thin clear water over your head;"  
> The line was very inspiring, and this is one of my favorite pieces by roachpatrol. I hope s/he doesn't mind; however, if s/he does, I'll take it down ASAP.  
> I hope you enjoy reading, and I apologize in advance for any errors.

There’s dusky amber light filtering through the window above the lode gaper, the only light in the sanitation block as you quietly shuffle to the trap and turn the knob to fill it. The water spurts from the tap, and you watch it slowly fill the trap for a few moments, the light casting moving white-blue patterns across the wall. The sound of your jeans flopping to the floor sounds loud- too loud- in the quiet of the block, and you shiver with the sudden need to feel the water. Your clothes flutter to the floor in disarray as you suddenly rush to undress.

The water is lukewarm on your toes, gradually rising. With fumbling, awkward movements you manage to sit, your knees pulled to your chest. Always you have a moment of indecision, even as the lightest of quivering pains radiates in your ribs and the water rises to your hips. Eventually you relax, your legs leisurely slung over the side of the trap and your hands supporting you on the sides. You turn off the tap, the sanitation block suddenly filled with only the sound of sloshing water and your short breathing.

It’s familiar, the way the water floods up, sharp on your back, then touching your arms, then trickling over your chest. A breath burns in your chest, but you wait until you’re settled in the water and every bit of burning pain has been blinked away from your eyes and then…

Water ghosts through your throat, slick and clean and displacing the air in your lungs before departing through your gills. The first breath is always slow, savored. The second is slightly quicker; the third more-so, until you’re inhaling deeply and habitually. Your ceiling is grey-orange, and by now you could tell where every line and crack is with your eyes closed. These moments are familiar, the only semblance to calm you have in your life.

You let your eyes fall shut and the feeling of the water sliding smoothly through your lungs to overwhelm you. Seconds fade into minutes, then minutes to hours. You lose all thought of your friends and their problems and the pressing matter of your mutant blood and soak in the moments of utter senseless tranquility.

Eventually, you open your eyes, blinking a few times and slowly sliding your hands up the side of the trap to grasp the edge. A flutter of muscles, an ache, and your gills shut after you dispel the last of your breath. You reluctantly breathe air once more as you surface, your hair slicked back and dripping _plip plop plip._ The water sloshes again as you sit for a few moments and then slither over the edge and stand with jelly-legs and a fuzzy thinkpan. For a few moments you only stand, water pooling around your feet.

You look down and take in the sight of your gills, red-tinged filaments laid flat to your contrasting grey skin. You hate them; you hate yourself for having to be so _different_ , for being a mutant. A migraine buzzes in your temples, and you don’t even care to find a towel to dry off, you just want those moments to last forever. But they never do, they never will, and they will never be _able_ to.

The stars offer no light among the grey darkness that permeates your sanitation block and swallows you whole. You stand like a beacon of utter hopelessness, the heels of your palms digging into your eyes and your thumbs rubbing rough soothe into your temples. It won’t help, you’ll fall asleep a mess of wet skin and a pulsing head and it will just be a night like many preceding itself.


End file.
